Miranda Rights

As careful as I am, somehow I still manage to annoy with my writing. There's a little secret part of me that revels in knowing that you might recognize yourself or pull up a memory.

This article was in one of my writer's magazines. To paraphrase: If we shared an experience, I'm allowed to write about it. If you told me about it, I'm allowed to write about it. If I overheard you talking about it, it's free game. Of course, this does not mean I can use your name.

But I am starting to make people nervous with my pen and cocktail napkin.

Blank

Some writers admit to writer's block. This rarely happens to me. My brain is wired in a different way and I'm the one you see writing on cocktail napkins. I'm the one with pen and paper on every surface of this house. I think of the blank computer screen as an invitation.

Today, I am blank. My mind is racing and if I wrote about everything soaring through it, I would have to sit here through Christmas.

Six-Word Memoirs

On one of my many treks through the bookstore, I stumbled upon a little book, "Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." This is from the introduction:

Legend has it that Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a story in six words. Papa came back swinging with, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Some say he called it his best work. Others dismiss the anecdote as a literary folktale. Either way, the six-word story was born, and it's been popping around the writing world for years.

I'll share a few of my favorite six-word memoirs from the book:

Aging late bloomer yearns for do-over. Sydney Zvara
Thought long and hard. Got migraine. Lisa Levy
Wasn't born a redhead; fixed that. Andie Grace
Came, saw, conquered, had second thoughts. Harold Ramis
Followed rules, not dreams. Never again. Margaret Hellerstein

Of course, I had to play along. I wrote one for me:

You alone will not defeat me.

Then, I wrote another one:

Rose-tinted glasses color my world.

Then I wrote one about the husband:

Big ego might hide true pain.

On to the oldies. I started with the Belle:

My South is my perfect paradise.

And for Hangdog:

Looking for Belle. Now and forever.

I've written many more. What would yours be? It's a fun exercise but I must caution you, it's addictive.

The Sandbox

I guess I was born attracted to sand.  My mother grew up in Florida.  I have lots of relatives in Florida and the south. My grandparents (Bobbie and Pa) had a sandbox in their back yard, built especially for me.  I shared it with my cousins but always considered it mine. This photo is my hunky dad and me on the beach.  I believe it's circa 1966.

Last week I had lunch with a very talented writer. I used to work with him in my corporate life. His grasp of opportunities and technology inspired me. It also made me want to throw my head in the sand.

Who, What, When, Where, Why and How

This is the incantation drilled into every journalist and most writers' heads. We don't have to think about it. It's so automatic that I would compare it to childhood manners. Someone gives you a compliment -- you say "thank you." We think, Who, What, When, Where, Why and How.

Of course, I drill the daughter, the baby and the husband with the same approach. It's not always welcome. I miss the days when they were younger and a captive audience. I miss the days when I could outrun them.

So, I'll give you a few questions. If you answer, it might provide some perspective. Aren't we all making life choices every day?

Who do you most admire?
Who do you miss?
Who do you trust?

What are you afraid of? What keeps you in that fear?
What's your favorite childhood memory?

When the chips are down, who do you count on?
When did you consider yourself a teenager/grown-up/middle-aged person?

Where is your favorite place? (I would also ask why.)
Where do you go for private time and quiet space?

Why did you marry your spouse?
Why do you belong to a particular religious affiliation?
Why do you choose some friends over others?
Why did you choose one career path over another?

How could life get better for you? Is this within your control?

Ask yourself. Ask your spouse. I hope you ask your children.

Office Weirdness

As you know, I write on every available scrap of paper. I keep loose notes and ideas everywhere but most of them wind up in my office. Some may pertain to client thoughts; others can run the gamut from gift ideas to menus. When the stacks get overwhelming, I try to bring the paperwork into the manageable range.

The computer in my office is slow but it's the fastest one in the house. There are laptops and another desktop computer in the baby's room. Yet, everyone seems to want to go in the office. I allow it but it makes me crazy.

I have an inexplicable desire for space that is just mine. I've gotten pretty militant with commands -- "You may not download anything on my computer!" I put notes on boxes, i.e. "Not Trash!"

Hangdog and the Belle used to wander in my office. I never thought I'd say it but I miss that. They never touched anything. They just sort of hung out in the doorway like it was off-limits.

The husband can occasionally rival Heloise. He feels like he's helping if he puts things away or consolidates stacks of papers. The problem is that I probably just spent an hour sorting those papers. I leave pens and notepads everywhere. He puts the pens away and moves the notebooks. I have a meltdown. I put them back where I wanted them. We'll do the same cycle until the end of time.

Packing

My aunt, the most talented writer I know personally, is leaving on a three week journey with 10 stops. Weather will range from 80 degrees to below freezing. She is taking one small carry-on bag.

The oldies are packing for nine days in one location. (If they go.) One large suitcase is dedicated entirely to medications, mostly unnecessary. We have hauled three additional big suitcases up from the basement and she's fretting that they won't be able to fit everything in. Plus, canes and at least one walker. Guess who gets to coordinate all of this with the airlines.

I can pack for almost any destination in about 10 minutes. I cannot do it all in one carry-on bag. Neither could the husband -- his golf clubs don't fit in the overhead compartment. But, if I ever get to the point where an entire suitcase is needed to tote medicine, I'm staying home.

Living Out Loud

Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite writers, had a column with the New York Times. Not just a little column... she won the Pulitzer Prize for writing about her life and her opinions.

Instead of resting on her laurels, she went on to write several fabulous (and haunting) novels. She also seems to be a pretty impressive mother of three children, politically active, supportive spouse of a busy man, etc. It's a good thing I'm a fan because it exhausts me to think about her life.

Her New York Times column, Life in the 30s, was "out there" for the time. It was raw and honest. It covered everything from her desire to have another baby to her feelings about religion to the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. That takes guts.

So I sit here in my little office, spouting memories and opinions to the world. I annoy people and they let me know. Some think I'm sugar-coating everything. Others think I'm harsh. I wish Anna Quindlen was my friend so I could call her and ask, "What about this?"

I'm guessing but here's what I think she would say: Write. Write with integrity and let the chips fall where they may.